


I'll risk it all (for this life we choose)

by Aki_of_Eyluvial



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, How do I tag things?, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, War mention in chapter 2, fate has more fun than she should, meeting through the years, romeo and julia are in the background but are definitely there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aki_of_Eyluvial/pseuds/Aki_of_Eyluvial
Summary: Fate laid her spell on them, pulling one string after the other carefully, and smiling as pieces fell in their places. There was an ancient tale of lovers hanging in the air, a tale people of Verona forgot when their heart got swallowed by hate and rage, a tale that still survived somehow, somewhere.Meetings, and balls, over the years are the way Fate sets up her matches, but two of them took longer than expected to fall into place.When they did, though, it was like spring in Verona.Chapter 2 is just a little deepening of a specific scene of the fic, there's mentioned a war, thought not in too many details, more through the feelings of the characters, still its war. You don't have to read it to understand the fic, feel free to ignore it.
Relationships: Juliet Capulet/Romeo Montague, Paris/Tybalt (Romeo and Juliet)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21
Collections: Romeo & Juliet / Romeo et Juliette Fanfic Exchange 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fresh Prince of Verone (DearDorian)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearDorian/gifts).



They couldn’t be more different, not even if they tried.

One surrounded by golden walls in more ways than one, protected, trained, taught to become a leader, a  _Prince_ , or something along the lines; with more power  in his hands  than what common boys would ever have in their whole lives at just fifteen years old. But Mantua, he soon discovered, was very, very different from the Verona he grew up in. Mantua was like a calm lake, with small waves when the wind turned but never chaotic nor dangerous. Mantua was careful and loving and clever, she loved him more dearly than what she would show to any stranger. And Paris, barely a boy, shone in that calm and safety and love. He grew in power and justice, made a name out of himself and he felt proud.

(He fought, too. With a sword among his men when more powerful cities tried to invade and destroy the peace. He was still young, not yet a man, but he knew his place,  he knew  his duty. Mantua was his city, his little golden kingdom. He would give his life to keep her safe.)

The other growing up in a house with dark walls, haunted by even darker souls, sad, lonely,  _angry._ His hands alternating a pen or a book for his studies to a rapier. By the end of the day the pen felt stiff and the blade fit his hand better than a glove. But the darkness wasn’t silent as everyone else may think, there was a background noise always there, like a chant, like a call to arms some would say. Words of hate and rage and war. And of undeniable loyalty. Tybalt learned what loyalty was before he could learn to write his name. As a Capulet, loyalty to his family was more important than anything else, and  _he was_ a Capulet _._ Whether his father was one by blood or not. His duty was, first and foremost, toward his family and its safety. Tybalt learned it soon enough. It was too early for him to actually join in a fight, maybe one day he would; for the time being he only had those street brawls the Montagues provided. They were a good training, but nothing like an actual battle where he could show his skills and how Capulets where better suited for protecting Verona. And maybe even ruling.

(But fighting wasn’t everything, he knew it. Just like he knew it was unlikely he would ever join a battle, people would always see him as weak,  _sick_ . There were other ways he could prove his skills. He could be more than just a sword in the hands of those adults. He could be much more, and he should always keep that thought a secret.)

Masquerades, balls and parties were never unusual in Verona, even in a city so hateful and darkened. Both Montagues and Capulets tried to make parties bigger and richer than the other, and that probably was the only kind of  _competition_ the Prince would approve. -  _He also knew they were so desperate to win his favor by throwing those parties and could only sigh at the thought._ \- 

“Still wearing that thing?” Tybalt almost jumped when his uncle put the hands on his shoulders taking him by surprise. _The thing_ was an old locket, the only memory left of his parents, it gave him a strange feel of safety, like still having them by his side; there was a lock of dark hair taped behind an old picture of his mother. “And _that_ other too.” There was a hidden smile behind his words, Tybalt realized, he looked down at the dagger at his hip.

“A precaution, uncle.” Now his uncle laughed as guests started to enter the room.

“You almost sound like your father. - _Tybalt felt a pang of pride at that, but still unsure if it was a compliment or not._ \- You’re still too young for those worries, child. Just think of the party and have fun like those your age.” 

It was easier said than done, even more when everyone else in the family, starting from his aunt, pressured him into fighting and training and getting better and more skilled with a sword. And in hating the Montagues.

When he looked up, as his aunt came to take her place next to her husband and, while passing, made him straighten his shoulders and back to look a little taller, the Prince was entering and everyone already inside pushed each other out of the way, bowing to him and to the two young men walking just a step or two behind him. Tybalt knew one of them, he got familiar with those red hair in the streets, usually seen around the Montagues during the fights, fighting with them when he should remain neutral instead.  _Mercutio_ . The other one, on the other hand, he didn’t recognize him, if he had ever met him before, which he wasn’t actually sure of.

“That’s the Prince’s older nephew, Paris, Count of Mantua.” He must have made a strange expression trying to think if he knew him or not because his uncle whispered the name in his direction. He nodded never looking away and bowing slightly in their direction as everyone else.

Paris smiled for some reason Tybalt didn’t know, almost like he wanted to charm someone. Well, not him for sure, he scowled and looked away.

They, indeed, couldn’t be more different, not even if they tried; but  _Fate_ , even in hateful Verona, was already moving and planning, and would stop for no one.

Balls held by the Prince were something else entirely, both families were invited, both families would always show up and it was almost a miracle it never ended in a bloodshed. Perhaps even in hate no one was that much stupid to create troubles at the Royal palace. Yes, that probably was the case.

Except sometimes troubles simply happened when having two young Montague and an Escalus in the same room as a Capulet; despite trying his best to ignore them –  _mostly ignore Benvolio and Mercutio at least. Romeo always acted so polite and tried to stop them. He also always ended up following them too._ \- Tybalt always fell in the middle of some kind of prank that did nothing else but fuel his rage. Sticking close to his relatives was the only solution he could think of. Either that or sticking close to the wall as the rest of Verona danced. The noise was almost bearable, not at all like the one from the parties he was used to, but still noise it was. He would end up with a headache by the end of the night. Not to mention boredom now that he managed to avoid getting caught in between Montagues and Escalus. -  _Escalus who was currently trying to woo his aunt for a dance._ -

“I would feel awful knowing one of my guests is not enjoying himself after spending days to convince my uncle for that ball.” A young man appeared next to him with a glass in his hand, dark hair, even darker eyes, and yet he was smiling so brightly and innocent. There were many things Tybalt could think of saying, many things that could be appropriate for the situation and for the person before him.

“You’re not from Verona.” And instead he just stated the obvious like an idiot. The man kept smiling at his words, if possible he smiled even more. - _But it wasn’t a bad smile, it wasn’t a mocking one, the Capulet realized. He kind of liked that smile. Just a tiny bit._ \- 

“I’m afraid we’ve never been formally introduced. Paris, - _“Oh! Oh, of course…” he thought._ \- Count of Mantua.” He held out his hand, waiting for Tybalt to take it, or at least to introduce himself. Not that he didn’t know who he was.

“Tybalt. Of the Capulet family.” The hand remained there between them, empty; Paris had another idea.

“Well, Tybalt of the Capulets, would you save this night for both of us and grant me a dance?” Tybalt blinked confused. Was he – Was he actually asking _him_ a dance?

“There are dozens of women who would pay to dance with you, _Count_ –”

“Yes, yes, and they all asked. - _He sounded annoyed for some reason Tybalt couldn’t place._ \- But _I’m_ asking _you_ now. It’s different. I’m choosing who I want to dance with.”

Tybalt would learn, later, that Paris always had a way to speak to others, a way that made them trust him, convince them to follow him. Where he was skilled with a blade Paris’ skill resided in the way he talked. How could anyone refuse him something? Part of his mind seemed to scream at him to be careful and not to trust him, that he was an Escalus, and he knew Mercutio already.  _Except…_

He took his hand and let him lead them toward the rest of the people.

“Ignore them. - _He drew him closer and whispered in his ear._ \- Focus on me alone, follow my steps.”

“I’ll have you know – _He clarified._ \- I know how to dance.” Paris smiled again, – _He never stopped and, God above have mercy of his thoughts, Tybalt didn’t want him to stop._ \- his hand never holding Tybalt’s too tight, just enough so he wouldn’t slip away at the first occasion.

“Next time, then, you’ll have to lead.”

“I thought you didn’t like when people asked you.”

“I can make some exception. I can make _one_.”

He spun him around, the cloak on his shoulders opening behind him, like wings. There was something in that moment, an ancient spell from an even more ancient tale. Something whispering in time with the music, whispering of matches set in another time and place, hands meant to fit against the other, eyes meant to find each other in the crowd.  _Souls meant to touch_ . 

Then the music faded away and so did the whispers, Tybalt slipped away from his hands, swiftly moving away from the crowd of dancing people, the cloak Paris tried to follow disappearing around a corner. Someone put their hands on Paris’ and he found himself once again in the crowd. But the hands never fit his enough, he had to hold them tight, even rearrange the grip from time to time. They never fit.

_Fate_ laid her spell on them pulling one string after the other carefully and smiling as pieces fell in their places. There was an ancient tale of lovers hanging in the air, a tale people of Verona forgot when their heart got swallowed by hate and rage, a tale that still survived somehow,  _somewhere._

Winter arrived early that year, with icy streets and snow, lot of snow. For the first time in many years the dark buildings of Verona were covered in soft white layers. Tybalt had to agree it was a nice different view from what they all were used to but he never loved that biting cold too much. He was perfectly fine inside the house in front of the fireplace, some warm wine in his hand too, perhaps. Then Julia came and dragged him around with some excuses.

“We will need protection out there, don’t you think, cousin?” Could he actually disagree? No. Of course he couldn’t, he would forever feel guilty if something was to happen. - _His aunt and uncle would forever blame him._ \- That was how, in one of the coldest days, he ended up walking around a market with the most bored look painted on his face as Julia ran with her Nurse from one table to the other. He longed for the warmth of his room, warmer clothes and shoes, warmer drinks, warmer everything.

A fight, though, could provide some warmth too, he thought as a couple o f Montagues supporters passed him, but he wasn’t out there alone, he couldn’t risk the safety of the one person he was supposed to keep safe in that afternoon. He couldn’t start a fight. He, in truth, had to step away from any potential fights, just in case, just to be on the safe side.

Stepping away from bumping on some Montague proved not to be the easiest decision he made, not when the streets were covered in a thin layer of ice making every step a danger to himself and to others.

Tybalt always thought himself to be graceful, years of training and fencing gave him some grace in the way he moved, his uncle made sure he didn’t simply learn how to attack or fight. Grace could be distracting, and a distracted opponent was an easy one. -  _It didn’t always work when fighting Mercutio. He was too unpredictable for him to fully control his movements. Sometimes, most of the times, he had to improvise and get distracted himself. But Mercutio was something entirely on his own, something different from everything else._ \- 

He was graceful. But the ice was unforgiving, it made no difference between rich and poor, men and women, graceful or ungraceful. 

His foot slipped slightly when he moved to get away from a couple that had no intention of moving from where they stood, in the middle of the street, speaking with others, he almost saw himself already on the ground, with every eyes on him. Oh, how he longed for the warmth and safety of his room even more, now.

Except he never hit the ground, he never fell and people around him kept walking minding their own business as nothing at all happened. There was an arm secured around his back. Tybalt blinked, confused. In another situation he would be so much embarrassed he would feel the heat rising to his face, he would try to step away immediately, snarl something at whoever grabbed him. For some reasons not that time. Maybe he was just glad he hadn’t fallen, maybe the hand was so warm that he felt safe. Maybe – 

“You should be careful.” Maybe he knew the voice despite having heard it only a handful of times. “You could have hurt yourself badly falling on the ice like that.”

Paris’ hair were a little longer than what he remembered, tied back with a golden ribbon. He was right, Tybalt knew it, he actually felt grateful for having saved him, but Verona had eyes everywhere,  _Montagues had eyes everywhere_ , whispers traveled fast here, those three boys would never let him live it down. -  _Or he could just decide to ignore their provocat – No._ \- 

“Tybalt! Are you okay?” Julia came rushing back to him, for some reason never once risking to slip, he nodded and moved away.

But before he could simply slip away from Paris’ reach the young man grabbed his hand, just as gently as he did when they danced, just as lightly. And brought it to his lips. He also never looked away from Tybalt’s eyes even has he kissed it.

“Be careful, dear Capulet.” He whispered before Tybalt retreated his hand in haste, a deep blush rising to his cheeks, and turned, dragging Julia back to her nurse and away. He would later blame the cold air for the redness still on his cheeks when his mind betrayed him and kept thinking back at Paris, at his hands, at his lips on _his_ hand. It was definitely the cold.

Julia, of course, did nothing to stop his mind from thinking. She kept talking; she kept asking; she kept bouncing around excitedly.

“Oh, cousin please! - _She exclaimed._ \- At least tell me the name of that _knight_ of yours!”

_Knight_ . He wasn’t exactly a knight, he was probably one of those rulers in their golden palaces letting everyone else fight for them.

“I don’t know the na –”

“Tybalt Capulet, - _Her voice sounded terribly similar to her mother and sent a shiver down his back. He wasn’t afraid of sweet, little Julia, no one could be afraid of her. Everyone should, he realized._ \- Don’t you dare lying to me.” Was she really thirteen? Or did she grew overnight and became older than him to the point of being allowed to scold him? Or maybe she was learning fast how to survive, which wasn’t a bad thing but – Hands that soft and warm should never wield a sword, maybe it was fine, in some cases, to let other fight. _No, wait._

He sighed, his mind drifting back to the previous thoughts before he could even begin to think back at them.

“Paris. - _It was strange how the name rolled over his tongue and almost tasted sweet. Names shouldn’t have a taste, but again many things that shouldn’t have a taste had it in the moments before a fit. Which wasn’t the current case._ \- Kin to the Prince.”

Julia suddenly turned back to her old self, she squealed in delight and pressured him for more details, her eyes shining brightly as she recalled the few instants of the afternoon, comparing them to some books she probably shouldn’t have read.

“It’s so romantic, Tybalt. Hand kisses are romantic and he saved you from falling, _just like a knight._ ”

She flopped down on the bed next to him and turned on her stomach so she could have a better view of her cousin before giggling as his cheeks reddened again.

It was the cold, he tried to convince himself, what else could it be? It wasn’t like Paris would ever be interested in someone like him.

_Oh. Oh, wait… that actually hurt._

“So…” Mercutio’s voice almost caught him by surprise when he stepped inside the palace to check he had everything ready to leave again. “Trying to woo our infamous Prince of Cats are you, cousin?”

He was aware of the nickname his younger cousin gave him, how he became aware of it was still a mystery being away from Verona all the time. But well, he heard Mercutio calling him so many times that probably half of Verona knew it by then. He  also knew of the actual implications Mercutio hid behind that and yet he couldn’t help himself  but think of that name in a sweeter way. Almost elegant. It suited him, more than Mercutio would like it to, and definitely not as mockingly he wanted.

But in truth, was he actually trying to woo him?  _No_ , of course he wouldn’t do something so frivolous. Or perhaps it was Mercutio’s wrong words choice that hid the truth. Wooing was too common, almost insulting in a way. Courting him, on the other hand, had a better ring around what he was planning.

Except he had absolutely no plans, it was like something else,  _someone else_ , moved them toward each other, made them meet and meet and meet again, lock their eyes, touch their hands. Something bigger, something greater.  _Damn_ , he wasn’t even the religious type to blame that on God.

“What if I am?” He tried to sound casual, to push aside all the thoughts he had one moment before, no need for Mercutio to know of them or he would never let him live them down. Mercutio laughed, like he knew something he didn’t, or because he found that situation funny for some unknown reasons.

“Then you better start looking somewhere else. His heart is made of stone and blades, if he even has one, - _Paris almost warned him to stop, he almost hissed at his cousin that he knew nothing and for sure he didn’t know Tybalt. Except he didn’t either, did he?_ \- you’ll just waste your time.”

Was he? Was he wasting his precious time? No, how stupid to really listen to his cousin’s words, how silly.

How could a hand so soft belong to someone heartless? How could that hand wield a sword like he heard it did many times? It looked wrong; it looked like –  _Like he was late already and his mind had no intention of stopping._

_Fate_ laughed, up from where she stood and watched, as with a hand she pulled the strings and sent dreams that never before crossed their minds, thoughts derailing out of their control, returning over and over like memories. She laughed and waited.

The Prince said  _political reasons_ every time someone asked about his older nephew, he almost said it for that Winter ball too,  _almost_ . Because in the end Paris showed up and people stopped asking. -  _And never once asked him how things were. Like they didn’t actually care._ \- In truth people, every kind of people, surrounded him with small talks and young daughters for him to dance with. Not Julia, no. She was safe at home, away from all the Montagues that filled the Prince’s Palace. Home where Tybalt wanted to be too that night.

He sighed and looked up toward Paris, currently dancing with an awkward girl with auburn hair, two heads shorter than him and at least five years younger.  _Not that Tybalt was judging her or looking at him._

There simply were things he noticed before other did, like how tired he looked, -  _Not bored, just tired. Physically tired._ \- how seemingly sad his eyes were, and a bandage around the wrist and probably up his arm too, when the sleeve went up as he moved and he didn’t pull it down fast enough.

_Maybe he was actually looking at him, not that anyone would notice._

“Tybalt…” _Maybe._ “Do you feel like dancing, at least once during the night?”

He liked his uncle, Tybalt really did, more than he would ever admit aloud. Because unlike Aunt, who went always too fast on everything, -  _Hate included._ \-  he was slow, calm. He cared. He truly cared for his family. -  _He tried to convince him many times he didn’t have to always protect their family, that they had guards for that and he could be a young man like all the others. He failed on that and gave up._ \- He was being careful and Tybalt sighed. One dance would not kill him after all.

“Do you have any Lady you wish to point out, Uncle?” He didn’t mean to sound bored, not that much at least.

“I’m pretty sure your aunt would have some suggestions, yes, but she’s… well…” 

“ _Currently busy with her lover.”_ Tybalt thought. He saw her dance with her husband maybe twice at the beginning of the night before disappearing somewhere. They were both all too aware of that.

“But no, I was actually thinking you could go save that poor _Count_.”

“From the tenth woman trying to marry him?” He probably missed a few who danced with Paris, poor girls pushed in his arms by their parents. He could use some saving, a little break perhaps.

“Or from the tenth woman trying to kill his feet, but I’ll leave the choice to you.” His uncle smiled quickly in his direction, they both noticed how she stepped merciless on his foot again, how she blushed and apologized, how Paris still brushed it off like it was nothing. “Only if you feel like it.” There was now a little nod, Tybalt realized, at the dark wooden cane in his hand. It had been his uncle who convinced him to take it for the night, just to be sure, on the safe side. He didn’t need it that night, he felt sure of that, - _But sometimes he felt too sure of himself when he shouldn’t have._ \- he brought it anyway. He wouldn’t need it now, he thought leaving it to his uncle before making his way toward the man trying subtly to retreat out of reach.

Normally he wouldn’t do something like that, it was so different from how he was; he wasn’t flirty, not in the slightest, Tybalt didn’t even know where to start if he had to be completely honest. For some reason his body moved on his own, or  _someone_ led him, he wasn’t sure.

He took his hand before even saying a thing and for the first time in at least a year he touched once more that only  _thing_ that perfectly fit his hand, he didn’t even have to hold it for it seemed to perfectly match his.

“I would prefer not to dan – _oh…_ ” Paris turned finally deciding to refuse for once in that long night, uncaring if he would hurt someone’s feeling. He was tired, the arm was hurting him and so were his feet. He was the nephew of the Prince, he was absolutely allowed to refuse something, whether that was polite or not. But when he turned it was Tybalt who was holding his hand and not looking a bit expectant, he was, in truth, smiling. Still a little shorter than him and yet taller than what he remembered, stronger. _Handsome._ “ _Oh!”_ He blinked pushing that thought aside before he ended up blushing like those girls only moments before. He didn’t change much, he simply grew up, like everyone did, for some reasons Paris found his words lost somewhere.

“You still owe me a dance I believe to remember. - _He cocked his head just slightly._ \- If you wish.”

Was he – Was he actually flirting with him? Tybalt? Shy, angry, absolutely not flirty Tybalt? It sounded strange, not bad, just – Paris nodded.

“I promised you would lead, and I’m a man of words.”

It was different from the other dances, not just because he wasn’t leading or because Tybalt wasn’t stepping on his feet, it was like floating, like flying. Everything around disappeared for the moment of one dance, Paris didn’t care what other may think or say, he didn’t before and for sure he wouldn’t start now.

“I thought Mantua was safe. - _“Excuse me?” He blinked, not expecting Tybalt to talk._ \- What safe city leaves her ruler wounded?”

“Safe cities have accidents too.” That wasn’t the kind of conversation he hoped to have, not with Tybalt, not that he expected a conversation during a dance.

“Accidents with swords? Well, most of times they are _more_ than just accidents. And you should be careful, believe me, I know what I’m talking about.” 

It wasn’t just sweet the way he held his hand, it wasn’t just light because that what he’d been thought in dancing lessons, it was careful. Careful on how he moved, careful not to move him too much or too suddenly. For a second Tybalt’s steps faltered, just a fraction of time, just one step immediately recovered. He hoped Paris didn’t notice. -  _He did. And it was his grip to tighten around Tybalt’s hand. He didn’t even know why._ -

Paris moved closer, he wanted to close that distance between them, to give in to those dreams and thoughts he had. Would he scare Tybalt? Perhaps, but he wanted to try, he had to try or he would go crazy. His lips were just one move away from him. Then the dance was over.

It was like the first time, when the music stopped and Paris gave him a little bow the spell lifted, their hands stopped touching and everything around them came back in full force. He wanted more. More than one stolen dance once a year, he wanted to hold his hand longer.  _Who should he pray to for that?_

“That was a nice dance.” Lord Capulet said with a smile, smiling a bit brighter and bowing his head slightly as someone Tybalt didn’t recognize passed close and greeted him.

He nodded, leaned a bit more on the cane he had been so sure he wouldn’t need and breathed out.

They were even now, then why did he want to feel that touch again?

_She_ laughed, her head thrown back and hair falling behind. She had been so close to make the tale flourish again, bloom in the dark streets of Verona. The next pull of the strings would be decisive and  _Fate_ always won, it usually didn’t take that long, but it didn’t matter, not that time. It wasn’t exactly funny, it just was right to wait. _One last pull._

Tybalt discovered on his own skin –  _or heart?_ \- how frivolous a wish could be, how hope could be shattered in the span of a moment. Hope he didn’t want to acknowledge or dwell on for too long.  _Hope that never left him for days, and weeks, and months._

He had dreams he knew he had to be silent about for they were about a man, and not just a simple man, of course not. A man related to the Prince. A man he couldn’t have, he wasn’t so stupid to believe to have even the slightest chance. He could still dream, though. Dreams wouldn’t kill. So he dreamed of him, of Paris, and the older he grew, the longer he spent without seeing him, his dreams took more definite forms making him wake up in the middle of the night with his heart pounding and a blush spreading on his face at the mere memory.  _It was getting out of hand._

What actually was getting out of hand, for Paris, was Venice. Good Venice, nice Venice,  _warlike_ Venice.

Almost two years trying to fight them off made him tired. His uncle even began to ask him if he was in need of any assistance to which he replied harshly that everything was under control.  _It wasn’t, and he was so tired._

It wasn’t an actual war, but it was enough to leave the people weak and doubtful.  _Of him_ .

When the Prince invited him, after two full years, to a Ball he had almost been tempted to refuse. But Mantua was calm, she was safe and one night would not bring a disaster over their heads, or so he hoped as he rode to Verona, his mind set exclusively on spending one night with his family, no matter how obnoxious they could be, and then off again to his city. Nothing more.

What he didn’t expect was what he saw as soon as he set foot in the city. 

There was a dark cloak fluttering just outside his vision and he almost tripped when he turned, like a distracted kid.  _That_ – That couldn’t be Tybalt, right? He –  _no_ . He hurried to the palace trying to forget it, forget how his mind mistook a stranger for the one young man he tried so hard not to think about.

“You wouldn’t agree with your aunt, I hope.”

“About?”

“About Julia!” Lord Capulet sounded almost distressed. “She’s too young.”

“She’s the right age. Girls younger and far less pretty than her already got married.”

“Too young. - _He insisted, and in all honesty Tybalt couldn’t help himself but agree, deep down. She was young, and she was beautiful. He would never be able to protect her if she was to marry._ \- As you are. I already have enough white hair without having to deal with _weddings_.” He patted his arm lightly when Tybalt turned, his expression confused at his words of weddings and worries, like he knew something he didn’t. “Be careful, women can be deceiving.”

It felt slightly odd having that conversation while taking a little shortcut to the palace, away from a square they both knew was filled with Montagues. Fighting wasn’t always a bad idea, just not on the same night the Prince was going to host a  Ball.  _Odd, yes, and yet a little comforting as well. Mostly odd._

Then a thought crossed his mind and he hoped he didn’t pale too much.

“Aunt is not planning something like –” A shiver ran down his spine. She tried a couple of times already to push young girls toward him but somehow – _luckily_ – they always ended up too scared of him to stay around much. It wasn’t exactly the proper time to tell her, tell all of them, he was really little interested in girls. And in boys. In truth the only person who ever made him feel something that wasn’t a deep desire to run away was the one person he hadn’t seen in two years.

But  _Fate_ moved her hand for the last time that night.

The night was cold and Paris was finding himself extremely comfortable in front of the fireplace; it wasn’t that he forgot how cold winter could be in Verona, it was more the strange calm that surrounded the city. The feud was quiet, for a day or two, because of that Ball his uncle was hosting, it had always been like this. Once he hated the noise from the fights in the streets when he crossed them or when he was leaving, then Venice became insistent, they started pressing closer and harder toward him, now those little fights were almost calming in comparison. And a night so silent and cold was putting him on the edge. So much that his hand slipped to his hip in search of his sword when Mercutio slammed the door open and all but waltzed inside.

“You got skittish. - _He laughed, so young and carefree, Paris let his hand drop back on his leg but he couldn’t deny his younger cousin was right._ \- You’re going to scare all those ladies waiting for you. Or a certain boy.” He winked and then he was gone before even waiting for him to answer. Why did he even walked insi – 

“I forgot! - _A silver letter opener flew across the room and got stuck in the wooden frame of the door an inch away from Mercutio’s face. The young Escalus looked at it almost impressed._ \- Guests are starting to arrive. Uncle is waiting.”

Paris stood up with a sigh. He was safe; he was in Verona and Mantua too was safe, they’ve been safe for almost six months now. He really had to stop being so nervous.  _They won_ . 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him you stabbed the door with a letter opener, _cousin dear_.” He wasn’t worried, not for that, and soon he would find something entirely different to worry about.

“Costanza. Are you listening to me, Tybalt? - _Lady Capulet grabbed him and linked her arm at his to make sure he didn’t fall too behind and miss some important part of her plan for the night._ \- She’s a pretty thing, and she’s related to the Prince, in some way. You will ask her to dance, and then start to court her. _Properly_.” She seemed to underline her words and shot him a look.

“I don’t like her.” The woman laughed.

“Now, you sound just like Julia, but mind my words carefully. You’re a man now, grown enough to marry. You don’t have to like her, just to marry her and give her a son. Is that clear enough?”

Oh, it was, it was indeed clear, that didn’t mean Tybalt liked it, and he didn’t. Not one bit.

And yet he had to bow and ask that girl, that in his eyes wasn’t pretty like his aunt said, to dance. He had to be kind, and sweet, and charming. All things he wasn’t. As soon as the dance was over he rushed away with an excuse, grabbed the first glass he found and emptied it. The night was just beginning and all he wanted was to drink and run from there. Soon enough Lady Capulet was dragging him back with her to the girl and her father. The night couldn’t get any worse and, in no way, could get better.

Hours later, and three glasses later, he couldn’t even feel them. It was good, of course the Prince would offer his best wine, but all the effects people claimed to feel after drinking he didn’t. In fact, it was like he didn’t drink at all. He had found a way to leave the girl, Costanza, to dance with… well, whoever it was she was dancing with, he was sure she was finding it far more pleasant than him; he retreated to a corner, close to one of the doors to the garden, with a chalice in hand, just to seem busy and not as annoyed as he was.

“I thought my eyes deceived me this morning. I couldn’t believe you changed so much, and instead you did.” 

Tybalt turned, fast as if fire touched him, his heart suddenly skipping only to recover faster. For a moment he didn’t understand what kind of differences Paris may have seen in him, sure, it had been two years since the last time they met, but he didn’t change much.

Except now he was just a little taller than him. That was definitely unexpected. -  _Like it was unexpected the faint, white scar under his left eye. Being the same height allowed him to notice more details, or maybe he never noticed it because it wasn’t there before._ -

“It’s been two years, but I doubt I’ll grow any taller.”

Paris’ eyes fell on his glass, on the way his fingers closed around the stem, much more relaxed than a moment before, his knuckles no longer white and the grip much softer. He forgot how distracted he could become around Tybalt.

“It’s been long, I know. The longest two years of my life. I –”

“Tybalt!”

Paris turned at Lady’s Capulet voice, as a first instinct he put himself in front of him before remembering that it would do little to hide Tybalt who looked like he really wanted to hide right away.

“This way.” Without thinking any longer Paris grabbed his hand and run outside in the garden, given the cold winter air it was empty and it would be really rare anyone else would get out and hang around the garden that night, they could hide behind pillars or a tree, they could –

“May I ask you for a dance? The music is faint out there, but…” Unlike the first time Tybalt didn’t hesitate to take his hand, the glass forgotten on a small table covered in a soft layer of snow, he put his hand in Paris’ and moved closer. It was nothing like the forced dance he had at the beginning of the evening, it was slower, softer, it was like finally breathing fresh air, and not only because they were outside. It was good, he felt good; for a moment he wasn’t even scared if someone would see them, if his uncle, or worse, his aunt, would see them. It would give him a chance to tell why all those girls they kept pushing toward him – _She kept pushing, if it was for his uncle he would be the one choosing who and when._ \- never got his attention. They all were pretty, most of them at least, but his heart already belonged somewhere else, to someone else entirely. Someone who’s arms were stronger than expected, who’s hold was light and soft and warm.

Someone who’s lips just crashed on his before he could realize it was happening.

They stilled, both of them, staring at each other unable to move or breath e , their hands still linked, the music still playing softly inside. Suddenly the night didn’t feel so cold.

“I – Sorry, I overstepped…” Paris tried to take a step back. He thought of kissing him, many times, since the last time they danced, years ago, he dreamed of kissing him, but never so suddenly, not so fast. He wanted to prepare the moment, he wanted to make it slow and sweet, make it perfect. Instead, he probably scared Tybalt off. - _Except he didn’t look scared._ -

“No. No, you… _Stay_.” Tybalt close his hand around Paris’, he felt his face heating up, his cheeks probably turning red like he was some kind of shy lady or something. He took a step forward, his grip softening slightly, their hands shifting slowly until their palms were fully touching, he was sure he read somewhere, or maybe it had been Julia telling him in a dreamy voice, that this touch was like a kiss. The holiest, the purest kind of kiss. Sinless. But while Verona thrived on sins more than any other city, - _Or maybe the feud destroyed what more pure and holy existed leaving only hate._ \- they didn’t care enough if they sinned.

And they met again, halfway, hands still clasped together, under the soft light of the lanterns in a cold winter night.

“What would your uncle say?” Tybalt asked softly after what could have been hours, after many dances, after laughter and stolen kisses. - _After rushing behind a pillar when some guests walked outside for some minutes, pressing each other against the marble stone and trying to be quiet only to end up in giggle when they were finally alone again, like kids who managed to trick their parents and were now free for a little longer. Kids they weren’t anymore and God knows, maybe they never had been._ \- 

“I have a couple of ideas and they’re not exactly the best.” He admitted. It had been a stupid question, Tybalt knew, but deep down he hoped for a different answer, maybe he hoped the Prince would be more careful to the feeling of his nephews. “But he put up with everything Mercutio does so… I’m not really sure.” 

“Uncle would approve, I believe. Or something similar. He’s not really fond of the idea of me, _or Julia for the matter_ , getting married but I think he wouldn’t be completely opposed.”

“Well, that’s a good news.”

“Oh, yes. - _He commented sarcastically rolling his eyes at Paris._ \- You would hear my aunt first. She would scream at the scandal, at the sin, she would push me in a marriage before morning _or_ she would burn me straight away.” There was resignation in his voice but he knew his family all too well, he couldn’t even dare to hope things would be different.

“ _Sin!_ What’s this? The _dark age_? - _They stared at each other, Paris with his mouth still open and Tybalt with a raised eyebrow._ \- Well, yes, probably it is since we went back to that ages, but that’s not what I meant, _you know it._ ” It was almost funny to see him getting so worked up.

“We’re doing nothing wrong, how can it be a _sin_?”

Tybalt smiled, he was the younger and yet it was  Paris who sounded more idealistic, more of a dreamer. He had to be honest, at least with himself, he liked that he was like this.

“We could ask Friar Lawrence to… I don’t know… It’s not illegal to marry, people may not like it or be opposed to it, but it’s not illegal.”

“I’m quite sure he would find some laws against it.”

“Against God?” Tybalt sighed sitting on the stairs still outside, a cloak laid beneath them. 

“We’re against the laws of God. Or so I’ve heard.”

Paris turned, his hands squeezing Tybalt’s and fire ablaze in his eyes, fire in his voice too, but not in anger. It made Tybalt’s heart sink for a moment at the sight and then beat faster a moment later.  _How could something so forbidden be so beautiful?_

“I’ll break them, then. - _“What?” Tybalt blinked returning to reality in an instant._ \- I’ll break every single law that call us a sin. I don’t even believe in God but I will break each and every law _he_ has against us.”

Tybalt exhaled slowly, he couldn’t believe what he heard, a laugh broke out, soft, almost similar to a small sob, before turning in something bigger. He wasn’t making fun of him, he wasn’t laughing  _at_ him. On the contrary,  _he believed him_ . For the first time, sitting on frozen stairs outside the Escalus Palace, with their hands warm because they never stopped holding each other, he truly believed there was more than just hate in Verona.

“Coming here often?” Tybalt almost jumped on the fabric stand next to him where Julia stopped to have a look, he wouldn’t get scared normally but Paris had a special talent of making himself incredibly silent when he wanted to sneak up on him. Julia turn around briefly at the sudden movement, then she smiled and returned to her fabrics.

“For one who does not live in Verona you too come around pretty often.”

Casting a quick look around to make sure there was no incoming danger, nor Montagues of any kind, he allowed himself to relax a little.

“The good thing of a peaceful time, and I’ve heard Verona had an early spring this year.” If someone saw Tybalt blush at his words they never mentioned it, how after all this time Paris managed to make him blush was unknown to him. “And yet I’ve seen only one flower, not that I disliked said sight.”

If that was how he won  t he hearts of Mantua’s people then he couldn’t disagree with them, his words were true weapons, just like his sword. Sometimes he couldn’t believe he was that much lucky, even if just in secret.

“Lady Julia. - _Paris bowed and kissed her hand earning a soft giggle as an answer and her Nurse gasp._ \- You get more and more beautiful as the months goes by.”

The encounters were always accidental, or so they had to appear, in public places and not too loud. Not on the important matters, anyway.

“And here he is.” The way he took Tybalt’s hand was far more subtle, too many eyes around them, he still brought it to his lips.

“And there we are. - _Tybalt agreed._ \- How curious.” Paris laughed attracting the attention of those around them. He couldn’t care less. Mercutio shook his head and walked away with Romeo and Benvolio before the could spot the Capulet. They never started a fight – _Well Romeo for sure wouldn’t, Mercutio and Benvolio on the other hand…_ \- when Julia was around too. - _Romeo looked behind one more time as Mercutio dragged them away muttering something, his eyes locking with Julia’s, she smiled and moved her gaze away._ \- 

It was strange for Mercutio knowing what his cousin was actually doing, he mocked him again and again, all the times, but it was easier to talk to him, it almost looked more human, more like him, all because of Tybalt.

“You’re – - _Tybalt sighed, hid a laugh that was not supposed to be there and shook his head._ \- You’re crazy. You’re proving me that all the members of your family are crazy.”

“My uncle too? That would be – _oof!_ – a surprise. _Oh my God. Do people really find that romantic?_ ” He almost fell from the railing inside the balcony as Tybalt sighed and scanned the garden below.

“Romantic for the one waiting up here, I’m pretty sure Julia would love something like that.”

“And do you?”

“I’d rather prefer you don’t break your neck trying to act _romantic_. What would poor Mantua do without you?” He stepped inside and locked the window door. They didn’t meet many times at night, it was more risky, and Paris always had to leave early in the morning, many times even before Tybalt would wake up. _And it was risky_. - _Not that Paris cared too much of that, him and his breaking the laws thing._ -

Paris stopped a moment, his fingers caressing Tybalt’s cheek and a sudden serious look on his face.

“There wouldn’t be this problem if you were in Mantua with me.”

For the night at least they allowed themselves to dream of it. Then morning came, and the dream faded away.

Paris stared at the mirror for the past fifteen minutes, fixing and fixing again the coat and the hair and the shirt and – 

“It’ll fall apart if you straighten it one more time.” For once he wasn’t much startled by his cousin, - _He saw his reflection in the mirror, that was the only reason._ \- he leaned on the door frame with his arms crossed and a playful smile on his lips. “It would be shameful to propose as you lose piece of clothing. I wonder if your dear Capulet would like it.”

“I’m not –” Mercutio scoffed at his pathetic try to deny it.

“Yes, you are. Look, _cousin_ , I don’t exactly like him, you know it, but it seems like he’s not that much bad for you.”

“Are you trying to give us your blessing?” He raised an eyebrow and studied Mercutio from the mirror. His hands automatically went to the coat to straighten it once more before stopping.

“I’m not sure uncle will so… Mine will have to be enough.”

Mercutio, constantly starting fights with the Capulets, and Tybalt, every time he could, constantly teasing him for one reason or another, -  _Never on the scars he knew were there, he did it once and regretted immediately for how dark Paris’ look turned. He may behave like a fool but there were limits to his mockery too._ \- he was giving him,  _them_ , his approval.

Paris almost thanked him but the younger was already gone.

He straightened the coat for the hundredth time, grabbed the flowers and walked out.

“Lord Capulet! It will only take a couple of minutes.”

He wished he remembered sooner what Tybalt told him about his aunt. How she would condemn them, how loud she was and how much power she actually had in the family. More than most women could even dream of.

“I’m here for a marriage proposal.” Lord Capulet took a step back, confused, maybe even worried at his words, but Paris couldn’t stop now, he had to do it or he would miss both the courage and the change for months. - _Words from Mantua weren’t the best, he had to return there soon, in a day or two at most. He couldn’t lose any more time._ -

“Marriage…”

Paris smiled and nodded eagerly. Sure he looked confused, but Tybalt said he wouldn’t be too opposed to them, if there was someone who would approve that was him.

“Marriage of course.” He didn’t expect her presence, or her loud, excited voice. But he couldn’t back down now.

“Nurse already told me everything.” _Nurse?_ She told her _what_ , exactly? “How our dear Count Paris was courting Julia.” _What?!_

“Actually, I –”

“She’s… still too young.”

“She’s the right age. And he’s a good match, he will surely give her an heir soon.” _WHAT?!_

“Lady Capulet, I…” He tried to stop her, he tried to take Lord Capulet away so he could explain his real intentions without troubles or misunderstanding. 

“No reasons to be so shy, now.” He could have screamed, but that wouldn’t be proper, nor regal, and he still came from the royal family, no reason to act like a fool.

“Marriage is too sudden, she _is_ young. He could… he could invite her to dance tonight and then… then we’ll see.” Lady Capulet scoffed at his words, same words Julia said previously about love and marriage, but she was not mistaken, he had been seen courting Julia, kissing her hand in a public square, saying how beautiful she was.

“Have you heard my dear?” Nurse stopped Julia from wherever she was trying to sneak to earning a sigh from the young girl. “Count Paris asked for your hand.” She said excitedly. Julia halted turning to look at her in shock.

“He –”

“Lord Paris _did what?”_ She turned again staring at her cousin with wide eyes, both aware he never courted her once.

“Oh, Tybalt. After all that courting – _What courting?_ \- he finally asked for our little Lady’s hand. You too should finally decide to court one of those fine ladies instead of scaring them all away like you do.”

_Yes. Not going to happen._ Tybalt thought, something flashed in his eyes, something Julia didn’t recognize in that moment, not hate, no, she knew all too well what hate looked like. It was more similar to betrayal, sadness,  _even pain_ .

It was  all wrong, Paris would never want to marry  _her_ .

“What are doing?” For the first time since he met her he understood what people meant when talking about the Capulet fire. She wasn’t loud as her mother, too kind and innocent to be like that, but she was definitely her daughter in everything. A couple more of years and she would even be dangerous. He spun her in the middle of the room.

“Dancing.”

“You know very well what I mean.” _Oh, she already was dangerous._ Paris sighed, his eyes searched Tybalt in the crowd spotting a white coat flying around.

“It’s been a misunderstanding. I can assure you that, Lady Julia.”

“Then you better fix it, or so help me.” Whoever was going to marry her would have a hard time, Paris knew that much, she was fierce, not at all the kind of shy girl a man would think by looking at her.

He let go of her hand leaving her to a man closer and hurried away from the dance floor.

“Tybalt – Tybalt wait.” He took his arm, maybe to fast, making him almost spill the wine in his hand. There was something dark in his eyes and Paris was starting to feel guilt building up for putting that look on him.

“Don’t. - _Tybalt took a step back from him._ \- What’s your great plan? Marrying Julia after… I don’t even know, you know? I have no idea of what you’re doing.” He took another step from him and emptying the glass in one go. “Actually, I don’t even know why I’ve been so fool to fall in love with you.” He turned his back to him and walked away almost crashing against Mercutio who looked expectantly at Paris from behind the mask.

But before his cousin could  get any idea of teasing him,  a servant handed him a small paper. With an annoyed sigh he opened it and ran off, the paper falling abandoned on the floor. First, he would fix that problem and then he would return and fix things with Tybalt, somehow. He had to fix them. He had to try.  _He had to succeed._

Of all the people Tybalt expected to find, or better, to go find him, Mercutio was not the last in his list, he wasn’t even contemplated. And yet here they were, on a balcony with glasses of wine close by.

“Haven’t you drink enough?”

“Don’t you have anything better to do? - _Mercutio shook his shoulders and stared at him a little more._ \- Apart from annoying me and smuggling your two friends inside.”

“Smugglin – oh, no, no. I would never.”

“I’m not drunk enough not to recognize that head over there.” He was, Mercutio had to agree, indeed pointing at Benvolio. In truth he hoped he didn’t notice Romeo dancing around Julia like he was currently doing.

“That’s not why I’m here. - _Taking a breath he took out the paper he collected from the floor and pushed it in Tybalt’s hand._ \- I don’t like you. And you don’t like me. But we have something in common, and it’s my cousin. So now, do everyone a favor and talk to him. Or something. I think he left but if you’re fast enough you can still catch up with him.”

Mercutio himself wasn’t sure of why he was doing it, maybe he knew his cousin’s plan for the morning, maybe he noticed the difference in both him and Tybalt ever since that strange  _thing_ between them started, maybe… maybe he wanted to help him a little instead of teasing like he always did.

Tybalt tossed the paper in a pocket without even looking at it, finished his glass and looked at Mercutio briefly, considering if he should say anything or simply leave.

_He left_ .

Drinking hadn’t been the best decision for the night, he was far from being drunk but it also was more than what he knew he should have drank. Was he more lucid he would’ve realized his own mistake immediately, instead he waited until it was almost dawn and he spent hours staring at the ceiling of his room. Not completely alone, not for the whole night.

“I met a boy.” Tybalt wasn’t sure of why he opened the door to Julia sometimes after the party, she was supposed to be sleeping, not slip in his room and on his bed. “He’s kind of cute, and sweet. And his hands are soft, and so are his lips.”

She sounded dreamy and in love, part of Tybalt wanted to show her out of the room, but she still was his little cousin, he could never send her away without feeling guilty.

“Is that how you felt? The first time, with Paris. When you realized you loved him. - _She rolled on her stomach and looked at him._ \- I think I love him. This boy.”

Tybalt sighed. He saw her dance, he almost went to stop them, he almost grabbed the boy and pushed him and his friends out of the palace. Julia looked happy, happier than ever, he couldn’t take that happiness away just because someone messed up the night.

“I should get angry.” He murmured instead, Julia gently smacked his shoulder.

“But you won’t. Promise me. Promise you won’t get angry. - S _he pleaded. She really pleaded him to spare his enemy for her._ \- I really love him.”

Anger was easy, Tybalt knew anger like he knew his hands, anger was easy because it was the first thing they ever taught him. Love, on the other hand, love was complicated, love was unpredictable. Love could hurt more than his rapier,  _love could kill_ . And he loved Julia so dearly he never learned how to tell her no to anything. He turned to look at her by his side on the bed, like she used to do when she was little and storms scared her. Anger was easy, but love was powerful.

“Fine. I promise. But aunt won’t be pleased, little dove. Not when she wants you to marry Paris.”

“We both know that’s not going to happen. Especially not if someone was to marry him first.”

“What you’re implying leads to a dangerous path.” He muttered, not entirely believing his own words, he still believed in him, in his promise to break the laws, despite the absurdity of the promise.

“But it would be a good one too. Think of how powerful us Capulet children would be in the eyes of all Verona.”

In retrospection she wasn’t that much wrong when calling each other  _powerful;_ she was right, as always.

Hours later he was staring at the ceiling with Julia asleep by his side under the coat he wore at the ball. He pulled out the little piece of paper Mercutio gave him and he ignored, curiosity finally having the best on him after spending half of the night thinking back at what happened, calling himself an idiot for not realizing the mistake, working on a pretty speech full of apologies he hoped Paris would listen, -  _unlike what he did._ \- and calling himself an idiot a little more.

There wasn’t much written, only that a small armed group was moving close to Mantua and he was needed. That was when Tybalt remembered –  _or realized –_ that he wasn’t just a ruler sitting in his golden castle, he wasn’t needed just so he could order his men around. He was a soldier, going to battle with his men, leading them from the first line. Tybalt knew that already, he saw the scars, he knew of the battles. But never like in the last hours of that night, with a crumbled paper in his hand and an apology speech repeated over and over in his mind, he felt scared.

He stood up slowly, careful not to wake Julia, and slipped out of the palace. He couldn’t wait, he didn’t want to wait, people would prevent him from leaving for the most absurd reasons and he  _had_ to go.

He was halfway to Mantua, pushing a horse that wasn’t even his, as fast as he could when it started raining. Pouring. A proper storm with loud thunders and blinding lightnings and so much rain that the streets turned to mud in barely minutes. And in minutes he was soaked to the bones and pushing the poor horse faster.

It wasn’t technically cold, summer was approaching and the temperatures were already warm during the day, but in that moment he wouldn’t disdain some warmer, and drier, clothes, and a hood.

It was still raining when he reached Mantua and seemed like it didn’t want to stop for the time being. Reaching the palace had been easy, he left the horse in the stable and tried to get inside, or at least take some cover.

“I just – I – If you could please just listen – I’m not an enemy, I’m not even armed! – Not even a dagger, I swear on my life! – _Oh!_ – Sir, could you please refrain from searching me in such a manner? That would be very much appreciat –”

“What are you doing?” Tybalt stopped squirming away from the two guards keeping him still, he turned and stared at Paris who had just entered from a back door, still wearing an armor.

“I – I’m sorry, I just wanted, _needed_ , to talk to you…”

“No. - _Tybalt’s eyes went wide for a moment. No? No as in “I don’t want to see you” or –_ \- Not you. Let him go. Now.”

“My Lord, he was –” Paris walked toward them, a hand still resting on the hilt of the sword, the metal of the armor echoing in the silent hall.

“He’s a guest and a more than welcome one. Let. Him. Go.”

Finally free from their hands Tybalt tried to straighten the shirt only to remember he wasn’t only wet, but he was also creating a small puddle w h ere he stood, water dripping from his soaked clothes on the clean floor. Well, now that was quite inappropriate. He didn’t have time to open his mouth and apologize, for too many things now, that Paris was in front of him, his cloak draped around his shoulders and a worried look on the face.

“You must be freezing… what are you even doing here? No. no, wait, that’s not important. I mean, yes it _is_ important but first let’s get you in something dry and warm, shall we?” Without giving any more time to object or say anything he led him further inside and in a room in the upper floor where a wooden bathtub had already been prepared.

“I’m sure the water is still warm enough come on, then… you definitely need it more than me right now.” 

Once again Tybalt found himself at loss of words, he stared back and forth between the tub and Paris, holding the cloak tight in his hands.

“But – you –” He made a quick gesture toward the armor, like it was the easiest, and quickest way he found to explain that _no, Paris needed it._ He shook his head instead, never stopping smiling at him, like he was the best thing he saw in too long.

“I just wish to get out of this bloody thing, you need to get warm before you catch something. I’ll go chance in that room over there, – _He pointed at a door on his right._ \- you get out of those wet clothes and inside the water. I won’t look, I promise.” He pushed a strand of hair out of Tybalt’s face and behind the ear, he leaned over him and kissed him quickly, then he left and closed the door.

For a couple more of seconds Tybalt remained still in the middle of the room. He came there to talk to him, to apologize for how he reacted and treated him. Thinking clearly at the night before it wasn’t like he got so angry as he feared, but the wine didn’t help him think too straight at the time. Still, he had to apologize, but the warm water was more tempting than he thought would be. He folded the cloak and put it on a chair, his clothes, folded too in a more messy way, ended up on the floor and he quickly slid in the tub curling on himself and letting water surround him completely. It was indeed better than outside, he didn’t realize he was actually that much cold. Until some warmer water dripped gently over his head making him turn suddenly.

Paris stood behind him in civilian clothes, something different from what he was used to see him in, something far more comfortable than all the layers he usually wore, a wet washcloth in his hand, looking down at him with a fond smile.

“You’ll have to tell me why you came here with a weather like this, _later_.” he almost immediately stopped him when Tybalt opened his mouth.

“But first I should apologize, for yesterday. - _He knelt by the tub, his arms crossed over the edge and the cloth floating in the water._ \- It’s useless to say that it had been the biggest misunderstanding of the century, and you were right. Lady Capulet is indeed pretty _loud_.”

He laughed softly bowing his head so that the forehead was resting on his arms. That was when Tybalt noticed some blood splattered on his skin, over the temple and down the face. He stole the cloth from Paris’ hand and cleaned it away forcing him to lift his head and stare at him before smiling reassuringly.

“It’s not mine, if you were wondering. Not even a scratch, please take that frown away, my love.”

He couldn’t stop thinking at the paper, at the fear he felt moments before deciding to ride straight to Mantua,  _to him_ , the fear seeing now the blood despite his promise to be perfectly fine. His mind was simply running so fast, too fast for him to catch up with it.

“I should have realized that something wasn’t right. - _Tybalt admitted finally._ \- That you would never want to marry Julia and that people must have misunderstood your intentions.” he let the washcloth drop in the water. “But perhaps I had already drank too much and my judgment was a bit – _off_. Still, I should have never said what I said.”

“So you don’t regret falling in love?” they both knew the answer, they both knew Paris was teasing him, how could he not with such a mischievous smile so similar to his cousin. And yet Tybalt remained serious even while knowing it.

“How could I? It’s the best thing ever happened to me, how could you even think I would regret it? But – - _He stopped and swallowed._ \- there are still laws against this. _Against us._ ”

“In Verona perhaps. In your very much loud family. But look around. Mantua! I’m the one in charge here, the one with power. My city, my rules. _My laws_. I told you I would find a way to break them.”

It was only in the afternoon, late afternoon but with the sun still high in the sky after the rain stopped around midday, that Tybalt realized the actual implication of what he did. It was when he reached for the pocket of a shirt that wasn’t his that he remembered he left Verona in such a hurry he took absolutely nothing with himself but the clothes he was wearing and a horse.

“Have you lost something?” Paris looked at him searching the pockets as realization settled in, he saw him sigh and sit back on a couch, and sigh again.

“ _Something?_ More like I left _everything_ in Verona. Clothes, - _“I have plenty of them here, and they suit you just fine.”_ \- dagger, - _“You won’t need it, but I understand the feeling of safety from having it close to you. You can have mine before we go collect your belongings.” He passed him a dagger and Tybalt took it, despite not being what he was looking for._ \- medicine.”

Paris closed his mouth, not having an answer ready for that, worry settled on his face at his words.

“Should I send for a doctor?” His hands grabbed Tybalt’s face, he studied him carefully.

“No, no. - _He reassured him gently._ \- It’s not like that, I’m not sick. It’s a… particular thing, _medicine_ , customized… - _He sighed. It was harder than expected to explain._ \- It’s complicated.” It didn’t help calming the worried look on Paris. “I won’t die because I don’t take it for a day, or for a week. _I won’t die_. It just help to keep my… _condition_ not too severe.” It didn’t help one bit and Paris looked now more confused than before.

“I’ll send someone to Verona to take some of your things, everything you’ll need, everything you want. You don’t have to explain.”

“And yet you look like you want to know. _You deserve to know.”_

“With your times. Not right now, when you’re ready.”

\-  _He looked even more curious and questioning when Tybalt had in his hands the dark walking cane. A little worried too._ -

“I don’t understand one thing about this condition you have. - _He admitted discouraged, as if not knowing was actually bad._ \- So I took a decision. I will study everything I can find around about it. I’ll be the most informed person in Mant – Tybalt?” He laughed placing his head over Paris’ shoulder on the couch. He said nothing but it was enough. Trust spoke louder than any word.

“I have some news from Verona.” Paris said one morning passing him a letter from his uncle over the table. “Your cousin, Julia, she got married.”

Tybalt almost dropped the bread at that.

“What?! Who?”

He scanned the letter until he found the name.  _Romeo Montague_ . Their enemy. The – the one boy she made him promise he wouldn’t get angry over. As long as she was safe, and happy, maybe things weren’t so bad.

“I’m not sure how her parents took it.”

“And how did you?” Paris inquired. Tybalt put the letter down and returned to his breakfast.

“Julia made me promise not to get angry at him the night I came here. How did I take it? If he dares to hurt her I’m going to cut off his hands with a butter knife.” He turned to Paris, said knife held carefully in his hand. “I took it quite well, considering the name.”

Paris was looking at him, not shocked for the words nor anything, he was simply staring at him unable to look away.

“They defied their families. - _He said after some seconds of silence._ \- Let us do it too. Let’s get married.”

Tybalt blinked.

“You… Paris. - _he stopped and took a breath._ \- I’m here, holding a knife after threatening to use it to cut a man’s hands with it and you proposed marriage?” He gave a quick nod.

“Did you – Did you just propose marriage at _breakfast?_ ”

Paris opened the mouth and remained silent for a moment, Tybalt wasn’t exactly wrong, it had been sudden. Really sudden. Not at all thought of.

“Well, I could have picked a better moment, I give you that. But my proposal still stands. Mantua got used to you being here, they’re only waiting for us to make it official so they can have something to celebrate.”

The first celebration, though, was in Verona. For Romeo and Julia, for the ending of the feud and the union between the two families.

Not everyone agreed, in truth some fights between Montagues and Capulets still happened in the streets, but the hate that seemed to envelope the city in a dark, thick mist was slowly lifting.

“They look pretty, together.” Paris nodded at the young couple dancing in the middle of the room, alone, their first dance. Julia looked up noticing her cousin and smiling, brightly, at him.

“They do.” He waved the hand just slightly in her direction. There would be time later for talking. Even more time for scaring young Romeo a little. He promised not to get angry, and he wasn’t. But threatening him – _teasing him a little –_ wasn’t part of the promise.

Paris took his hand and brought it to his lips, like all those years before in an icy street in the market.

“Tell me, dear Capulet, - _He whispered so low that anyone but him could hear._ \- would that be a better moment to ask for your hand?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [What is all that Fluff?! Who wrote it? Who borrowe my body for this? Oh my god!]
> 
> Ok, hello there, I finally finished it and now I’ve been hit by an even greater burst of anxiety so, in advance, I hope I came out fine and that you liked it. (Everyone actually, but mostly you since, well, it’s your gift. My gift, for you… Yeah, that’s anxious me babbling, sorry.)  
> I’ve kind of mixed up a few things, unintentionally, as I was writing. Normally I see Hungarian Verona as a kind of post apocalyptic setting, somehow here I kept this vague setting but in a more medieval/renaissance way, hence rapiers, horse traveling and such.  
> Then, about the attacks on Mantua; Venice had been the first city that came to mind, (Mostly because I shouldn’t write 3 or more different things all together. And there is one where Venice is… Well, not the calmest city in Italy, let’s put it that way, shall we?) that’s the only reason I choose her. It could have been Milan or anyone actually, she just popped up.  
> Fate as opposed to the presence of Death in many production, is there just for that role. (No. I got stuck once at the beginning and wrote that bit about Fate, and then she kept popping up because she was comfortable there.)  
> Ages are a little different from the show probably. Paris is two years older than Tybalt, Juliet is three years younger than him. (She’s still 16 yo when she meets Romeo, but Tybalt has yet to be 19… I’m babbling again, oh my God! People don’t care of my mental planning over the ages!)  
> Last thing, I believe, I gave up on saying how long it would take for them to travel from Verona to Mantua. Because I can’t understand a damn thing of how a horse works. Seriously… I should stop making those researches for a fic…  
> (Also, a little mention for Papa Capulet, cause this version is the only one, except for the production on ice, that he’s kind and doesn’t get physical with either Julia nor Tybalt. That’s why he kept popping up too, and things would have gone just perfect, wasn’t Lady Capulet so damn loud.)  
> I, once again, hope you liked it, both fic and my effort to keep it completely, absolutely fluffy and happy and with not a single trace of pain. It has been a challenge, and while I love challenges… Well, it’s been hard. But I won. (I think)  
> So now – I’ll stop talking before the note gets out of hand like the fic… Thank you for reading!
> 
> ~ Phanie ~


	2. Of fire and blades - Extended scene - War in Mantua

Skittish, Mercutio said, like he found that funny. They both knew he didn’t, they both knew it was his way to avoid putting more pressure on him. They both knew all too well Mercutio was right.

He was nervous, his fingers twitched and his hand ran to the sword he didn’t have at the moment, even during lunch a movement too sudden from a maid made him turn and point the knife at her, the poor girl scrambled away in fear but no one of the members of the family said a word against him. -  _ He hung his head in shame as she ran from the room. -  _

He used to be much more relaxed in the past, even just one year before, he used to call Verona  _ noisy _ , he used to crave the peace his city had. He called Verona's Air heavy and bloody because of that stupid, endless feud. 

Then Venice came, her army roamed the woods and ravaged the villages nearby and for the first time Paris was scared. Scared for his people, scared for their safety, so scared his hands couldn’t help but shake as he took the sword and marched against them.

He fought before, some bandits and some little rebellions; never another city, never something that big, that expert. The commander of the Venetian army was a man in his forties, if Paris was allowed to guess an age, -  _ he wasn't, for the man was fifty-three. -  _ twice his age and much more experienced. He almost laughed when he saw Paris the first time, he gave a mockingly bow and told him to surrender if he valued his life. He answered he valued his people more and he would never let them live under a tyrant’s rule. Then he scarred his face. -  _ That, in truth, had been quite an accident for the man lunged forward first and Paris used the knife as his only defense. He fell on it, but every good story needs a little embellishment.  _ \- 

Thinking back at it maybe that was the reason Venice was now that much insistent, he couldn’t exactly blame them.

He still was inexpert and naive, he wanted to protect everyone to the point he was so desperate when he realized he couldn't. 

For the first time, as Venice knocked and knocked on the walls, he felt small and scared. He wished he was in Verona, away from all of this, safe next to his cousin and uncle, free of all those responsibilities. He wished he could run away, perhaps even hide somewhere and stop seeing, stop hearing, stop tasting it all. He was --  _ He was a boy _ . He was too young for that and people sometimes forgot. He was young, and he was afraid. -  _ No one would blame him for fear, not his people, not his men. He blamed himself because he thought he should be more. He should do more. -  _

Then Venice stopped knocking and for a moment Paris thought it was over, that they gave up or something. That was when dark smoke rose from outside the walls, from the camps and the villages. That was when the screams grew louder and louder at every hour, when the air got heavy and the warmth of the fire crept too close to the skin. Paris never felt that much cold before in his life.

Mercutio called him skittish, he told him to stop being so nervous as the fire quietly crept in the fireplace, stop looking so  _ scared _ , it was a little fire to keep the room warm, he surely had those in Mantua too. -  _ Many rooms were always cold and dark, drapes over the windows always closed unless they were on the main square. He had a facade to keep before his people. The rooms were cold and he huddled under many blankets to fight it off, but fire only brought memories to him. And not the good kind. -  _

He saw bodies turning into flames and smoke , the once comforting sound reminding him of dying pleads, of screams that would keep him awake at night for the rest of his life, and the more he stared at the fire, unable to look away, drawn to it like a moth to the light, the tighter his chest felt, until a sob broke through his lips. And tears. And he curled up on himself until a hand stroke his back gently and he moved to curl better against the Prince. 

Mercutio looked at them from the door unsure of what to do, that wasn't the same cousin he like to tease endlessly for the stupidest reasons, the cousin he called soft and too keen for diplomacy than any other Escalus. That wasn't -- he only was one year older than him, he had been put in charge of a city because he was old enough, and strong enough, and responsible enough. No one thought war or battles could happen. That feud in Verona never threatened to destroy the whole city, never threatened to swallow her whole uncaring of consequences. It was just two family fighting over  _ something _ , and a tired Prince trying to keep the peace. -  _ Mercutio never thought of death before. Now every news coming from Mantua sent him a shiver down the back until he read them himself. He never thought he would grow to care for his once obnoxious cousin. Now he feared one day he would only read "Paris has fallen". For how much Mercutio liked to challenge the Capulets he started to hate wars and battles. -  _

They set up a camp not far from the walls, tents, and men all ready to battle, all ready to follow him. Paris felt small. He took a place,  _ his place _ , in the front line, a hand resting on the hilt of his sword, looking ahead like he was some kind of fearless commander; never looking away so that his people, his men would believe in him and follow him.

They set up a camp for their women to wait for them to return, -  _ despite having no one for himself but a memory. but the thought of a boy in Verona _ . - close enough to them and yet enough far for them to be safe.

He marched in the front, he rallied his men, he led them.  _ He lost some of them. _

And when his feet, weary as his soul, led him back to Mantua his people cheered him. Welcomed him as a saviour. As a protector. If they thought they loved him before now they were sure of it. Because he could’ve remained in his castle, he could’ve commanded his men to go and die for him. Instead he went himself, he led them to battle, to victory. For once in months, in years, the warmth he felt wasn’t the one of the fire.

Mercutio found impossible to sneak up to him, it almost was like he had eyes behind his head. In truth he felt his footsteps, he felt a soft cracking of the door, the wooden floor vibrating just slightly under his bare feet. His body tensed, his heart accelerated in his chest, he held his breath. but it was only his cousin, now staring with his mouth open at the not so faint scars on his back, at the broader shoulders he always hid under fine clothes, at the burn so slowly healing on his upper arm.

He called him skittish, and nervous, but never blamed him for being like that. And never asked. He was curious but asking would make everything real, even his fears. So he looked from afar, threw some jokes and teases at him and let everything else drop. 

Paris always wore a smile, he would say Mantua was calm like a lake, water barely touched by the spring wind. He never spoke of the harshest winter, when the lake was calm but the wind sharp as a blade. Or of the hottest summer, when fires marched and crept upon the walls and no matter how much water a lake could have he couldn’t put them out. But his eyes, if one looked close enough, spoke louder than words.

The fire crept quietly and in that cold afternoon Paris found himself unable to look away, his hand almost stretched out to grab a flame and save her from turning to smoke until Mercutio waltzed in.

**Author's Note:**

> In the end I gave in and had to had that part, it was nagging at me so badly and so much that I couldn't say no.  
> I could have placed it in the actual chapter but the rhythm was already perfect as it was and I couldn't bring myself to destroy it. (also, it would have broke the streak of fluff and we can't have that, right? Not when I write something like this.)  
> But it was there. Because yes, I always describe Mantua as safe and quiet and loving, and she is, but she's also the one that shaped Paris in who he is. And he's not, in everything I write, just a pompous Lord sitting in his golden palace. He lives and fights and he would die for that city under his rule. I wanted to show the changes, even if in a fast way.   
> How he went from an idealistic, dreaming boy to a scared young man, to a leader.  
> There was that scene, when he throws the letter opener at Mercutio, that just stands there, sends ideas of why he reacted like that, why so fast and why with a weapon when he could, I don't know, yell at him, or jump startled, and instead he throws him something. I wanted to show there was more behind his reaction, show his weakness as a strenght in some ways.  
> It doesn't change the story, it just wants to give more depth to a character I love much more than I first thought.
> 
> ~ Phanie ~


End file.
